Wednesday, November 21, 2018

Kings Island

If we, in fact, are to succeed in this vision, this crux of life. What are we then to do? Shall we then punt? Yes. I've been watching a tad of football.

But what indeed is this life? I've been self aware for, well, I'm into my seventh decade of self. And awareness. I'm impressed with how little I know.

There is, of course, a different but also an infinite parallel between wisdom, knowledge, and intelligence. And of course the ever popular mentioned: common sense- lay persons are so very fond of bringing up in verbal discourse.

We inhale and exhale. Love. And eliminate waste.

There must be more.

I feel an incredible emptiness at times. It hurts.

This feeling does not make me unique. If perhaps a small measure of honesty is applied, everyone goes through a period of empty measure. Many periods of empty measure in the decades we spend on this rock.

Like a never-ending roller coaster ride at Cedar Point or Kings Island.

I have never been to Kings Island.

Throw in the towel?

Perhaps. But not just yet.

Wednesday, November 1, 2017

The Wedding of Jack-Patti-Sweet and Mandy

 With apologies to Jack Kerouac, Patti Smith, Larry Norman, the band Sweet.....and to Mandy.                                                                                                           
                                                                                                                                                                    so anyway there i was large majestic victorian house next to the y moaning seething breathing 1976 and 20 piss factory of a job huff huff huff she crawled into my bed like a cockroach the words she said got into my head like a waterfall she had big bell levis wife beater shirt man man man tight tight i loved her in the sad morning eight track tape player wired to a car battery boom boom boom downstairs neighbors neighbors to the side everybody square square square bitching screaming met some cats and chicks street folks paul jerry his wife with a collection of weirdos and bee bopps straight outta heaven and hell beer weed acid soapers laughter tears tears tears piss factory job huff huff huff 64 mustang was my chariot exhaust wasted fumes buzz buzz dizzy dark hair to her shoulders slim young fun boom boom my jeans were tight loved a knife and buckle fight sorry Mr. Norman wire frame glasses man oh man i dug her she dug me together with jim and munch in his gremlin with paul we made 3 we kissed soothingly softly sweetly sadly as the grem tossed about the sad country lanes she came to me in a skirt of green net sewn over w/flat metallic circles which dangled and flashed and when her memory visits on a pillow of sweat with toss toss turn and my hair is cropped craving covering i remember member remember member making love to her sweetly that sad morning two lost angels hung on a city shelf   

Monday, October 30, 2017

Stoney Smoothie Charlie and Me

I met them when I worked at the hospital laundry. Had I known what life held in store for me I would have stayed there and retired. But I was young and knew no better. My official title was, Wash Man. Sounds menial and even funny but in the world of laundry you were top dog. A roofer buddy made fun of me a lot. He said he had a man's job and I was nothing. I got him a job with me when he was laid off one winter. He said, shit buddy, you work hard. I said. No shit.

Stoney was born with a handicap. Not sure what caused it. His left arm was withered, he walked with a limp, and he was totally blind in one eye and could not see out of the other. Sorry for the platitude. It did not slow him down however. Worked his ass off and he trained me and we became good friends. He rode a moped, dreaming it was a Panhead. And. And. And.

Smoothie was Stoney's buddy and and that's how I met him. What a character. Short fellow with red hair and beard. Loved him dearly. He had the look of a leprechaun and I don't mean that in a bad way. And funny. Shit man he could make you laugh. He was ill. But are we all not? Who among us....is....not.....ill. Found out later. Much much later. He was in and out of hospitals the years we travelled this rock and filled each other's spirits. But that was long ago. Long. Ago...............

Charlie was in a wheelchair. Never heard why. Never came up. Kept a towel in his lap. You'd go to visit him at his apartment and there was laughter ahoy! Laugh...laugh...laugh. He had a speech impediment as well. Loved him to death. Never said a cross word to any living being be it man-dog, woman-cat, or child with lollipop.

So anyway......the world spun and time past in the hamlet of Mansburg. We ran the bars together. Laughed and cried together. Held each other up and knocked each other down. Fell into and out of relationships. Threw up in alleys. Listened to music. Talked....Talked....Talked.

I think of them often today and I'm not sure I'll ever find love like that again. Pure. But memories can be translucent, myopic and sometimes, deceiving. We each have them but 'tis like the ebb and flow of ocean tide.



Monday, September 11, 2017

Lottery

Who would've thunk it? I made it to 94. And counting. I always joked with my doctors that with my luck I'd live to 100. Sometimes, finding a new doc happens by way of sons and daughters taking over their father's practice. Other times, perhaps by lottery. I can't always remember. I took the meds they said would lengthen my life. I worried that they were just generating income. What are ya' gonna' do?  I've outlived everyone I knew.

I kept riding the whole time. Not a whole lot but a bit here and there. I'm fortunate that I no longer need an automobile. Could not afford one and the self-drivers make me nervous. Left turn crashes have greatly diminished and may even be non existent. I don't always pay attention.

The electric bikes came slowly and are no longer cost prohibitive. Like microwave ovens. First slowly introduced in the UK as law. I think. Required by law in the developed world. At least in my little one. Mine is relatively inexpensive with a range of 600 miles between recharges. It is light enough for me to handle.

I kept one of the internal combustion bikes. They were "Grandfathered" in for a bit in transition. I remember what the term means but don't wish to explain. The EFI bike got sold but I kept the carburetted UJM. They hold a lottery every year and on a closed off course us oldsters get to ride our dinosaures. I won this year! Yahoo! The oil for the old gal is difficult to find. The black market is your best bet. Expensive but I manage to budget it in by not eating for three days. Piece of cake. Har! The fuel is readily available and inexpensive. 'Splain that one to me?
.
This luxury was bestowed upon us through the good graces of the AMA. Suddenly, at least that is how it appeared to me, all those weary old slogans became null and void by the silent passings of 'leccy bikes at speed. The "Loud Pipes Save Lives" from the outlaw and the perceived outlaw communities and the "Loud Pipes Risk Rights" stance of the AMA no longer mattered. Cool with me! I can't stand to argue any more and can't barely even stand to talk to people and I've heard all the noise I care to hear.

For those that wish motor exhaust noise there are buds that comfortably fit in your ear. They are legal in some areas and illegal in others. Who cares? I heard a pup the other day use the overused and generationally selective term "Old School" talking about the buds. I guess helmets have devices for sound too. I don't really know how it works and what is available. I dig the silence of sailing. If need be my organic memory bank can boot up motor sounds AND all the damn music I've ever listened to. It is noisy in here!

You can even purchase 'leccy bikes that look like a Panhead, BSA Lightning, or a Vincent Black Shadow. Hell. I saw one last week that was a '69 Sandcast CB 750. These are esoteric and purchased by millionaires. I judge no one's ride. Some of them worked hard for their money and sacrificed.

Mine is quite cheap. Inexpensive
rather. I love her all the same.

Gotta' dash for now. Gonna' unplug the gal and take a blat.






Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Let The Day Take You

What I enjoy most about life is never knowing where the day may take you.

Deb and I had left a birthday party last Saturday. We had her grandson with us. He is almost twelve and an amazing young man, who, I do not doubt, will do amazing things. I enjoy his company immensely. He likes to read and write and is an accomplished drummer. He's been through some shit and I admire him.

So anyway,,,,,,there we were. Deb said, being our pilot, "let's drive out this way." We found ourselves pulling into the parking lot of The Historical Aviation Squadron near the airport here in Lancaster.

I get a bit absorbed by World War II stuff. I wandered
around their museum talking to an older gentleman with a lot of knowledge. B-17's and their crews have fascinated me for the longest time. Amazing machines and amazing men.

So anyway.....long story short.....one of the fella's there tells Deb's grandson he is taking a plane up today and asks if he wants to go. Of course he does. In a seventy six year old plane piloted by an eighty five year old pilot. No fear indeed. The plane was used during the big war to guard our coasts by the Civil Air Patrol.

Then, it's Deb's turn. She takes a flight. I hold her purse. Then, they fire up a helicopter and Deb and her grandson take a flight in that.

This was a fluke folks. Don't run out there looking for a free flight like their's saying I sent you. But check the place out. A place where our history is being preserved by those that lived it.

Where are we going today Deb? I'll hold your purse anytime!

Thursday, December 1, 2016

Monocular Vision

Living in a binocular world and I am a monocular guy. (sang to the tune of Madonna's: Material Girl)

I've been monocular since I was eighteen.There are scads of us. Perhaps even shit-loads.

We are a proud lot. 'Taint easy. But so is having no arms or legs. We have it in perspective. No boo-whoing here. We get up in the morning and do it.

Our stories are as broad spectered, although lacking depth perception, as a, well......prizm.

My own arrival into the world of monocular-ness is quite boring. I drove my car drunkenly into a telephone pole. If your story provides more depth (sorry) please share.

Don't hand us something and expect us to zoom in on it. And for fucks sake don't toss us something and expect us to catch it! Okay!?

We drive cars, eat, sleep and make love like everyone else. Just differently.

We laugh at ourselves. Change song lyrics. Don't it make my brown eye blue. Jeepers creepers, where'd 'ja get that peeper. I've only an eye for you. Smoke get's in your eye.

I almost feel sorry for binoculars. How very boring for you.

We meet new people everyday. We bump into others on our unsighted sides. I personally met a young lovely at a wedding years ago by knocking our noggin's together. A great ice breaker.

There are pitfalls. When two of us get together it is difficult as hell making eye contact. Jeez. Which eye to look in? Very confusing.

And we have many celebrities, world leaders, dignitaries and plumbers in our midst.

We get to wear eye patches and hunks of glass to drop in our buddy's Martini when he ain't lookin'.

So if you want to join an elite brother and sisterhood, poke an eye out with a screwdriver.

Chose the non-dominant one.



Sunday, November 27, 2016

Brothers And Fathers

   The bike burbled beneath me. Rounding the twisties, the sound of the inline four radiated under, around, and through me. The treetops held the sound in, bringing it back to me in muffled cadence.
   I’d chosen to take the UJM that weekend. Universal Japanese Motorcycle.
I’d bought it in the mid nineties. This UJM. Kind of a plain Jane kind of ride, no frills, with simple maintenance. The valves are hydraulic, requiring none of those pain in the ass routine adjustments with phrases like: bucket under shim, valve lash, and threaded screw adjuster. Ah! Viva la simplicity.
   My other motor, an evolution Sportster in a tight little rigid, spent the weekend without me. I’m a total slut when it comes to motorcycles. Love em’ all. If I hear one more asshole on their crotch rocket say, “This’ll out perform a Harley and it’s cheaper.” I’m gonna puke.
   It's apples and oranges. Marilyn and Brittany.
   Going to visit my father and brother one fall weekend, I took country roads with rolling farmland and sweeping vistas. Going to visit my brother, whom I’d not seen for awhile, I was both excited and dismayed. Excited for the opportunity to get away and ride, dismayed by the fact of seeing my brother and the ensuing guilt associated with said visit.
   An interesting character, my brother. Raised by the same man, we were, however, the seed of different men. He took after his biological father in that they lived a bit closer to the earth than I cared to. Or perhaps maybe was even able.
   I was and am a wage slave. It is all I know. I wish that it were different but that is the way it is.
A high school graduate, I jumped into the factory life. I'm grateful to be employed but I like referring to my job as going in, being served a hot steaming turd, eating it and complimenting the chef. All with a smile on my face.
   My brother feeds himself as best he can. Given an artistic bend, he paints and sells paintings. No Rembrandt but impressive to people who don’t paint and fancy it genius.
   I think he, my brother, views my life as one of privilege. The heir to the fortune.
   My father was a working stiff in a factory just as I now am. He was just good with his money and enjoys a comfortable retirement. No wealth. Just the pleasure of seeing his seeds sown.
   Using an ATM machine one day, my brother was amazed at the apparatus and the cash it gave me.
 "You just push buttons and it gives you money?" I told him a little more than that was involved.
   It was October when I went to visit them. My brother and father.
   The best course of action, I decided, was to check into a little old motel I was fond of, using it as a base of operations to visit them both and not feel obligated to stay with either. In the secret folds of my brain, those little spots that are hidden from others, I referred to this motel as my BOO. I shall not explain these initials and insult your intelligence for I am confidant that you have ascertained their meaning.
   The wind blew through the changing color of leaves.
   I’d discovered the BOO A few years before. At that time it was ran, the BOO, by a cool older couple who'd operated it for the last twenty-five years.
   I love the shit out of motels. I’ve stayed in a lot of them in my many motorcycle travels. I had many favorites, but this was the favorite of favorites. However, this year, the motel had been sold to a mid-eastern couple.
   I am not a racist. Nor do I care to discuss race. It is one of the many topics we humans, in our discourse, should perhaps not discuss. Just with me maybe. You can refrain from discussing race, as well as religion, abortion, the weather, and hell, whatever war we might be mired in at the time. I care, yes. But when I’m my on my bike going everywhere and nowhere, I-me, don’t give a shit. So when I’m at a motel, when I’m at BOO, don’t bug me. Okay?
   I checked into BOO, the mid-easterners being very nice. I drank some vodka and watched some telly. That is how I strengthen myself for things I want not to do. Booze and telly, late night, clears my head. Somehow in the muddling of mind in reruns and alcohol, I find clarity. The clarity that is essential for me to visit my father and brother.
   Some dumb ass had to bother me at BOO my first morning there that October morning,  right in the middle of a chain adjustment, as usual, the first questions came. The same questions asked by many a dumb ass on many a journey.
   “Where ya going? Where ya been? What year is it? My brother has a Harley. Zat a Harley?
I try to look the bike over early in the AM so as to avoid the dumb ass questions.
   As stated earlier, it is difficult visiting my brother and father. Difficult, for different reasons in each case. I feel guilt when I leave my father. He is seventy five and I always feel as if there is something  I should do or be doing for him. But he is fine. He gets around well, and, I believe, might just be sharper mentally than I.
   I start the bike and leave the motel parking lot. Looking right and left then right again, I notice the blue glow of the fluorescent lights overhanging each door to each room. The bike warms quickly as I head into the metropolis. The teeming city of sixty thousands that holds the home of my father. The inline four purrs contentedly between my knees. I am at my father’s home much too quickly.
   Dad’s place is quite stately. He retired from the factory in management. He lives a simple, humble life. He likes a nip of vodka himself. After our usual greeting, we sit. I tell him of my plan to visit my brother.
   “God,” says Dad. “Ya sure?”
   “Yup.”
   “Okay.”
   Their relationship was always, a bit strained to put it mildly. Mother had my brother four years before she and my father married. Dad had always resented the little shit. No judgment call here. Dad was a good provider and a good man. Principles before personalities.
   So I take the ride from my father’s home to my brother’s….er….home. I have to ride through the small town where I went to high school. Wow. No change here. Same one stoplight, same one bar, same one gas station and same old narrow minded attitudes. I could see it in the gas stations attendant’s eyes as I filled up. Or, perhaps it was me. This was what I expected to see so this is what I saw.
   I puttered out of the village down a winding, hilly, country road littered with views of farms, farmland and farm animals. Beautiful-beautiful and peaceful. I entered the drive leading to the old farmhouse. It was much more lane than driveway. Weeds kissed my handlebars on each side. The growth was enormous. Thistles and any which weed you could name. I thought perhaps I’d taken a path to nowhere. A wrong turn that would end with the cued music and Rod Sterling’s voice. Just when a huge bump sent my ass off the seat and my knees up around my ears, just when I settled back on the seat, regaining my composure, a figure stepped from the foliage. I dropped anchor. No skid. Just the binders sending the message received to the drum brakes that resided inside my cast rear wheel.
   Stepping from the weeds, a man, gray hair long to his shoulders, stood. His legs were apart, shoulder width. Facing me but just a little sideways which I assumed was to make himself a smaller target; he held a staff in his hands. It was wooden and smooth. He did not smile. I on the other hand, silly-ass that I am and happy to see my brother, took my right hand from the throttle and waved. Flashing my toothy grin I then cut the e-stop. The burble of the inline four stopped immediately. It had been a few years since we’d seen each other and I’d never been to his current “home.” Had he not recognized me, I'd be easy pickings. That thought ran through my helmeted noggin' and just after it sent the message to click the e-stop into run mode and mash the starter button with my thumb, he smiled. I lived another day.
   We were at the drive-in years ago. I believe the movie was Darker Than Amber with Rod Taylor. It was a double feature with There Was A Crooked Man. I could be wrong at the latter movie title although I knew for sure it had Henry Fonda and Kirk Douglas in it. My brother was home on leave from the Corps. Doing my paper route I’d found him an old Nova. We spent two days patching the body with putty and painting the car primer gray with the rims brush painted black, by me. He taught me how to mix the putty and how to spray paint in the wind. We drove the Nova that night. I cannot remember at what point he said it. He said how ashamed he was to have me as a brother. He was nine years older. He was in the Corps. He was my hero.